


Rid of Me

by toluene



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toluene/pseuds/toluene
Summary: A new treatment at Arkham Asylum has resulted in the release of several of its most infamous patients. When the Joker's release is announced, Batman decides to do some investigating of his own to see if the treatment, and the doctor behind it, are really all they are claimed to be. But are his suspicions justified? What will it mean for Batman if Gotham’s worst villains no longer threaten the city?





	1. Chapter 1

The television glowed in a large room, its light changing color as multiple images flitted across the screen. The room darkened momentarily as the commercial break ended, its light stabilizing to the muted warm glow of a news interview.

“—With me now is Dr. Rebecca Strayer, the one credited with the new therapy techniques behind the successful treatments of some of Arkham Asylum's most notorious patients,” announced Vicki Vale to her viewers across Gotham, before directing her attention to her guest. Seated in a chair next to Vale was a smaller woman wearing a lab coat with the signature emblem denoting Arkham Asylum.

“Dr. Strayer,” Vale continued, “under your direction this past year, Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, and Arnold Wesker have all been deemed fit to reenter society, and are currently living out their lives in Gotham. If that weren’t amazing enough, it now appears the same will come true for the Joker,” Vale said, putting emphasis on the final name. “Now, I think all of us here in Gotham are wondering just how you managed to accomplish such a thing?”

Strayer nodded as Vale spoke, acknowledging Vale’s question with a polite smile. “Well, it would be an understatement to say that the Joker posed a challenge for us all at Arkham,” Strayer began. “Many, including myself, were doubtful at first if he could even be helped at all.”

She paused a moment before continuing. “I was confident with my previous successes, however, that there was hope for him with my new treatment. Though to call it my treatment would of course be giving myself too much credit—every breakthrough depends on the accomplishments of others, and I owe a lot to those who came before me,” she explained. “But even with their help, it has been a difficult journey, and there were times in the beginning when it seemed all my efforts with Arkham’s most infamous patient would be for naught. Today, however, I can say with full confidence that the Joker no longer poses a threat to society.”

Vale's slight frown was only noticeable on the screen by the subtle thinning of her mouth when she answered. “If you are correct—and I hope that you are—then that is a great accomplishment, indeed,” Vale replied. “But this is the Joker we're dealing with here, doctor. Is it possible he has somehow bypassed the effects of your treatment in order to be released from Arkham?”

Strayer nodded at that, as if she had been expecting a question like it. While at first glance Strayer fit the commonly depicted image of a scientist, with the calm, professional demeanor and borderline condescending tone, there was a hint of warmth in her eyes that suggested a less formal personality underneath when not in the public eye. Her smile seemed to acknowledge the fears every person living in Gotham had about the Joker at the same time as it attempted to assuage them.

“An understandable concern, Ms. Vale. None of us at Arkham take the issue of the Joker lightly. If he were indeed lying about this, you can be certain we would know about it. But even considering our high level of confidence, we have made sure to take additional measures to ensure the city's safety once he is released from Arkham. We have multiple safeguards in place on the small chance that he were to relapse again.” She spoke if she’d already answered the question a dozen times before. “I think it’s also important to note that the relapse rate in this treatment program is currently zero percent, and I do not see recidivism becoming a problem at any point in the future.”

Though Vale didn’t look completely satisfied with the answer, she nodded and moved on to a different question. “I think one thing many of us are wondering is just what kind of man lies beneath the homicidal clown. Just who is the Joker, if he really has changed?”

Strayer sat up a little in her seat, looking for the first time genuinely interested in answering Vale’s question.  

“First, I must say that it was highly rewarding to be able to see his progress over time. The best part of my job is seeing that progress, and knowing I’m making a difference—not just for the Joker, but for everyone connected to him. It might be hard to believe, but he has a great respect for human life now—all life, really—and I think you'll find he's not all that different from me or you. Of course, for his protection we can’t have him here to say the words himself, or even describe his appearance now, but know this at least: he feels great remorse for his past decisions, and hopes someday he can help undo some of the damage he has done.”

Vale made a thoughtful sound. “That's a lot to make up for, if he does.”

Strayer didn’t argue against it. “It certainly is. But he is no longer the Joker the city has become familiar with, and while we still don’t know his original identity as a result of past traumas, he will be given a proper name in the future to reflect his new life.”

Vale sat back in her seat. “Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, Joker—may I ask who's next on your list?”

This time, Strayer seemed hesitant to answer, and it took her a moment longer to respond than with Vale's previous questions.

“I am working with several patients right now, but my biggest challenge at the moment is Waylon Jones, or Killer Croc as the public knows him. So far he's been the most difficult of all—even more so than the Joker, if you can imagine that. No doubt due to the interfering biochemical effects of his disease. But I am making progress, however slow it is. I hope someday he will overcome his cravings, if not eliminate them, so he can finally be free from the part of himself that has kept him caged for so long.”

While it was clear Strayer tried keep a positive tone, there was an uncertainty in her eyes, as if she doubted such a goal could be reached. If Vale noticed, though, she didn’t give any indication of it.

“Amazing work you're doing, doctor. With your efforts, perhaps Gotham can truly look forward to a safer tomorrow.” From Vale's tone, it was clear the interview had come to an end. “This is Vicki Vale, Gotham N—”

The screen went dark, leaving the room in silence.

Bruce slowly lowered the remote in his hand, seated on a couch while Alfred stood motionless nearby him. The remaining light of a lamp cast a warm glow around them both, leaving the rest of the room in cavernous shadow.

“I know the facts are there to support it,” Bruce said after a few moments, interrupting the settling silence of the manor. “But I still don't trust it, Alfred. It goes against everything I've known to be true until now.”

Alfred regarded Bruce with a thoughtful stare. “Forgive me for saying so, Master Bruce, but it sounds like you don't like the idea of the Joker and the others being rehabilitated.”

“I _do_ like it. It's just hard to believe after all this time that what helped them was so simple. Drugs and a bit of therapy—why now, after all these years?”

“ _Novel_ therapy, they say, sir,” Alfred corrected him, picking up Bruce's empty tray of food. Alfred's dry sense of humor was never lost on Bruce, though Bruce was rarely in the mood to respond to it, and right now was not one of those exceptions.

Alfred watched him another moment, concern faintly etching into his features before he spoke again. “Not everything can be beaten by brute force alone, you know.”

“I know,” Bruce agreed solemnly. “But can you forgive me for not trusting the Joker?”

Alfred's eyes went back to the television, where Dr. Strayer had been optimistically discussing the Joker’s future only seconds before. Bruce noticed Alfred’s shoulders fall the very slightest, and after another moment, he let out a breath of air, looking back to him.

“For that, Master Bruce, I think you can be forgiven.”

Bruce’s mouth formed into a grim line. “Crane, Wesker, even Tetch I can understand. But the Joker? No one just cures the Joker, Alfred.”

 

* * *

 

_2 weeks later._

It was late in the afternoon, and the bar was mostly empty. Two men chatted quietly over a meal at one of the tables, while a tired-looking woman sat alone watching a game on an old tube television that hung on the wall at the far end of the bar.

A gust of cold air burst in as the door opened, followed by a man. He scanned the bar and its patrons with an uncertain eye, clearly not a regular. After a minute of debate he sat a few stools away from the woman.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” A young bartender asked, without the casual confidence of experience. An older bartender boredly watched the interaction from the side while keeping their other eye on the television.

The man debated a minute before ordering a drink. He worked at unzipping his jacket and removing his hat, but left his gloves on, then sat quietly while his drink was slowly prepared for him.

A commercial break interrupted the game, and the woman’s eyes momentarily left the screen, sending a cursory glance over to the man sitting near her. Her eyes hovered with cool disinterest over his thin, tall frame before returning to the screen. Her mouth formed into a contemplative frown through the next few commercials, but disappeared when the game returned to take her interest.

Sometime after that the door opened again, and another man entered, dressed in a heavy coat and wearing a hat and scarf that covered most of his face. He ordered a drink before sitting alone at one of the corner booths.

For a while, not much happened. The woman followed the game while the man at the bar slowly worked at his drink. At the other side of the room, the chatting men grew louder and more boisterous as their drinks grew emptier, and bursts of laughter filled the room every now and then. The lone man in the corner received his own drink, and sat passively watching the television, though he didn’t seem very interested in what was on it. In the background the older bartender could be heard giving some pointers to the younger one.

“Do I know you?” The woman suddenly asked the thin man during one of the commercials.

The man turned his gaze over to her, looking her briefly up and down. “No, I don't think so.”

“I'm usually good at placing faces. I feel like I've seen you before.”

“There’s a lot of people to be mistaken for in Gotham,” the man answered indifferently, then went back to his drink.

The woman was still watching him. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Come on, sit closer.” She patted the stool next to her with a few measured thuds.

Something in the woman’s voice made the man decide against it. “I’d rather not. Sorry.”

The woman went silent again, but sent a lingering stare at the man’s gloved hands before looking back to the television. Soon after, the two men got up from their table, paid their tab and left. The door thudded shut loudly behind them, and the silence in the bar became readily apparent, losing a quality of the warmth it had before.

The thin man had jolted a little at the sound, sending a glance at the door, and when he looked back again he was face to face with the woman. As she peered closely at him, he could detect the overpowering scent of alcohol on her breath. When he tried to lean away she grabbed tightly onto his arm to hold him in place.

“Those eyes…” she said as she carefully inspected him. “It’s you, isn't it? You're _him_.”

“Really,” he said, shrugging his arm away with an irritated frown, “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“It has to be you.” Her eyes darkened then, and she wrinkled her nose. “They say you're cured.”

The man glanced around himself, but the older bartender was busy giving advice to the younger one, and the only other occupant in the bar pretended not to notice their conversation.

“I still don't know what you're talking about,” the man insisted, turning back to the woman.

Her hand went back to his arm, and when he tried shrugging his arm away again, her grip tightened, and it was strong, fingers digging painfully into his flesh while she ignored his protests.

“You’re him, I know it! You’re the Joker!”

“Please, lady, I'm not him!” he maintained, then ripped his arm away, sliding off his seat to take a step away.

It only made her more upset.

“You know what you did to my daughter? My only daughter!” She closed in on him, pushing him back to into the bar so he was trapped between her and one of the stools, the edge digging painfully into his spine.

“How dare you even show your face in this city!” she cried, face threatening closer, her anguish finally taking over. “Nothing those doctors did to you can fix what you’ve done!”

There was an ear-splitting crash and before the man could process the sound, a piece of broken glass that had once held his drink was now pressed up against his throat. He heard the older bartender shout something behind him, but couldn’t hear what it was. The glass pressed closer into his neck until he was sure he felt it draw blood.

“Fine!” the woman shouted, and he realized it must have been directed at the bartender, because suddenly the shard of glass was thrown against the wall and in the next moment she had pulled him back from the bar only to lay a strong blow to his face, knocking him to the floor. “The old-fashioned way, then!”

He felt another blow, and realized he couldn’t breathe. Before he could recover from having the wind knocked out of him, the woman had him pinned to the floor, hands wrapped around his throat. The grip tightened and he tried to breathe in but did nothing to stop her, and his surroundings began to morph into a dim blur.

“Bet you’ve done this a hundred times before.” The pressure increased on his neck. “About time it comes back round to you.”

In the next instant the pressure left his neck, and he could breathe again. The woman had been pulled off him, he realized, by the same man who had pretended to ignore them earlier.

Quickly, the older bartender joined the stranger in holding her back and together they directed the woman to a seat at the other end of the bar.

He had just gotten off of the floor when a hand found his arm again, and a voice spoke close by his ear. “Let’s get you out of here while everyone’s still distracted.”

When he looked up, he saw it was the same man who had restrained the woman. Behind him a little ways the bartender was speaking softly to the woman, arm on her shoulder as if consoling her. The younger bartender was frozen in place behind the bar, sending the man an anxious, but curious look, as if trying to place him from somewhere else. Just like the woman’s eyes had done earlier.

The thin man nodded in agreement, and with that, he followed the stranger out of the bar.

 

* * *

 

“You don’t see something like that every day,” the stranger commented through his scarf once they were outside. He turned to regard the other man. “Are you alright?”

The thin man shivered against the wind, pulling his jacket closer around himself, then nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Guess emotions are just running a little high right now with the Joker’s release from Arkham,” the stranger mused. It was the third time in two weeks that someone had made the same claims as the woman had, resulting in similar events reported in the news. Thankfully, none of the encounters had been deadly for those unfortunate Joker look-alikes so far.  “She just got lucky this time.”

The thin man caught himself in a nod, mouth open as if to agree until he registered the final sentence. He snapped his mouth shut, then looked around, calculating a potential route of escape.

“She was right, wasn’t she?” the stranger persisted. He didn't have the same threatening tone that the woman had used earlier, though, and only sounded curious to know the truth. “You really are him, aren't you?” When the stranger saw the guarded look on the other man’s face, he added, “Don't worry, I won't hurt you if you are.”

The thin man looked away, silent for a long moment. Something in the stranger’s voice must have convinced him it was safe enough to answer, or at least not to run away just yet.

“I'm Jack. Just Jack, now,” he finally answered.

“Alright, then. Nice to meet you.” The stranger held out his hand. “Jack...?”

Jack eyed the hand with some suspicion. “Napier,” he said, without lifting his own hand.

“Jack Napier,” the man repeated the name, leaving his hand stubbornly out until Jack finally took it and gave it a cautious shake.

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” The stranger let go of his hand, then pulled down his scarf, revealing the rest of his face. “I'm Bruce.”

Jack’s eyes widened in almost comical realization.

“...Bruce _Wayne_?”

Bruce’s eyes shone in quiet amusement. “What gave it away?”

“But you’re—” Jack’s surprise faded, only to be replaced with what looked like suspicion again. “Wait a second, why were you here, hanging around a dive like that? Were you watching me?”

Bruce shrugged. “I have friends in many places. It wasn’t hard to find out where you were, pay the right people off. I guess I just wanted to see for myself if the stories were true.”

Before Jack could answer, the billionaire spoke up again. “Hey, you're bleeding,” he said, pointing to Jack's neck.

“What?—oh.” Jack rubbed the front of his neck, and when he brought it away there was fresh blood on his gloves. He frowned a little, then shrugged, lowering his hand. “Could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

Bruce nodded across the street. “Come on. I've got a first aid kit in my car.”

Jack, still looking taken aback by the situation he had suddenly found himself in, followed a few moments later.

“Here, catch,” Bruce said, tossing the first aid kit to him once they reached the car—one of the old beaters he used when he wanted to blend in with Gotham’s masses. “Should be some bandages in there.”

Bruce went to the driver’s side and got in, then leaned over to look at Jack through the passenger window. “Well, are you getting in or not?”

Jack, who had been busy digging through the kit for a bandage, glanced up in surprise. “In?”

“You don’t have a car, right? I’d hate to make you walk in this weather.”

A strong gust of wind seemed to make Jack’s decision or him, and he got in, placing the first aid kit on his lap. It was immediately warmer in the car without the constant biting wind, and he relaxed in the seat, letting out a sigh.

“I take it you already know where I live?”

Bruce gave a small shrug, not denying it. “More or less.”

Jack went back to tending his wound as they drove through the city, batting the drying blood with gauze. He took out a clean bandage to finish dressing the wound. It took longer than it would have without his gloves, but he didn't remove them, despite the inconvenience.

Outside, a light sleet began to hit the windshield, melting as soon it made contact with the warmer surface.

“Thank you for doing this,” Jack said after a few minutes. “To be honest, I haven't really been going out in public much. I don't even drink. And the first time I do, this happens.”

The sleet turned heavier, forcing Bruce to turn the windshield wipers on. “Sounds like a case of wrong time, wrong place to me,” Bruce responded. “I don't know how she did it. I would have never guessed it was you if I’d passed you in the street.” He sent Jack a quick glance. “If I hadn't already known, I mean.”

Jack rubbed at his bandage, watching as the sleet melted into small rivulets down the window. “I don’t know. There’s only so much a new look can do for someone like me.”

“At any rate, it's a good thing I was at that place, or you might have been hurt a great deal more back there. What was that about, anyway? It didn’t look like you put up much of a fight.”

Jack shrugged. “Would have looked bad, I suppose, with her accusing me of being the Joker and all.”

The car fell into silence apart from the constant sliding of the wipers. As the sleet continued to coat the city, Jack seemed to become absorbed by its view, and it took longer than it normally might have for him to notice the unfamiliar scenery.

“Wait a second, this isn’t the way to my place,” he spoke up suddenly. “Where are we going?”

“Well,” Bruce began, “The way I figure it, if a man nearly gets his life taken from him, he deserves a drink.” He looked over at Jack, sporting one of his trademark Bruce Wayne grins. “A real drink, I mean.”

 

* * *

 

“I know you said you didn't usually drink this stuff, but...” Bruce held out a glass filled with amber liquid, holding one for himself in his other hand with extra ice. It was a single malt Scotch aged 20 years, something better served neat, but he was more concerned about keeping a clear mind right now than ruining a good Scotch with ice.

Jack shrugged. “Today's a good day as any to start,” he answered, taking the glass.

Bruce gestured to two leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Alfred had left them moments ago after adding fresh wood to the fireplace, appearing to go about his business as usual. As if it were completely normal for Jack to be there. Bruce might have smiled if Jack hadn't been watching. He could imagine the comments Alfred was making in his head.

Talking with Joker like this hadn’t been part of his original plan, but the incident at the bar had presented him with a unique opportunity. While it had its risks, Bruce had decided it was worth it to interact directly with Joker as Bruce Wayne instead of Batman to discuss his new identity as Jack under the guise of simple curiosity. Thankfully Alfred had understood enough to go along with this plan without needing further explanation.

“When you said drink, I didn’t think you meant at your manor,” Jack commented once he had sat down.

“You’re disappointed?” Bruce asked, setting his own drink beside him.

“Oh no, not that,” Jack said quickly, shaking his head. “Just trying to pin down why, is all. It’s not safe for someone like me to be very trustful of strangers. Even high-class ones like yourself.”

Funny how easily Jack’s statement could be reversed in this situation, thought Bruce. Who could ever trust somebody who had once been the Joker?

“I’ll be honest with you, Jack,” Bruce said. “As someone who has regularly contributed funds to Arkham in the past, I wanted to see firsthand if Strayer’s work had really paid off, and wasn’t a trick of some sort.” Bruce studied Jack before he spoke again. “And by the looks of it, it certainly has.”

“Why not just ask Strayer to see me yourself?”

Before Bruce could speak again, Jack stopped him with a hand in the air. “You know what? I’m not going to question it. Honestly, I’m just glad to get away from it all for a while, no matter what your motives are for bringing me here.” He relaxed back into his seat. “And anyway, your reason sounds believable enough.”

It took Bruce a moment to realize there might be more to Jack’s statement. “Get away? Do you mean you’re in danger where you’re at?”

“No, no—nothing like what happened tonight, anyway. But I think some of my neighbors are starting to suspect who I am. Thankfully the doc must have some kind of leverage over them, cause they seem to keep shut up about me, but it’s not always the most pleasant atmosphere, let’s just put it at that.”

Then, perhaps at hearing the concern in Bruce’s voice, Jack straightened in his chair again, turning to watch Bruce with new interest. “I gotta say, you don't really seem like how they depict you in the newspapers.”

Bruce picked up his glass. “Are you how they depict you?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“I should have known better than to ask that one,” Jack said, shaking his head and taking a drink himself before turning his attention to the fireplace. Bruce followed his gaze, and their conversation fell into an odd silence as they watched the steady dance of flames.

It was strange, being able to sit like this next to Joker—or at least, someone who had been him once. His hair and eyes and clothes were different, and his skin had been expertly hidden under layers of makeup, but it was still the same man underneath. Bruce could recognize him anywhere, despite what he had told Jack earlier. And here he was, drinking with someone who had murdered countless times. Someone who could still very well be capable of it.

“It's funny,” Jack said, breaking their silence. Jack’s eyes were still intent on the fire, his words strangely close to what Bruce’s own thoughts were. “I have all these memories. The things he did... and yet, they all feel so far away. I can look at them, and it doesn't affect me, because it _wasn't_ me in those memories. But when that woman looked at me today… for the first time I truly felt like the worst person alive.”  

 _He_ , Jack said, as if the Joker and Jack really were two different people altogether. And it wasn't hard to see why, even with the unavoidable physical similarities. Jack's demeanor was entirely different from the Joker's. His voice, his mannerisms, the way he averted his gaze when Bruce stared at him for too long—no matter how Bruce tried to deny it, the man before him seemed almost a stranger.

“You aren't that person anymore, no matter what she thinks,” Bruce said, trying not to think too deeply on his own statement.

“I know—I, uh,” Jack stumbled over his words, though Bruce was sure it wasn't from his drink. “Thank you for understanding. And for helping me, when you could've easily been forgiven for not doing so.” He turned his glass absently in his hand while he spoke.

“Don't mention it,” Bruce answered, swirling his own drink a little so that the ice clinked against the side of the glass, before taking another sip. “So, you do remember it, then? Who you were, before, as...?”

When Bruce didn't clarify further, Jack looked away, his mouth forming a thin line.

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Alright, what about your past, then?” Bruce asked, trying to sound conversational. “What was your life like before you were him?”

Jack tightened his hold on his drink. “I don't remember.”

“Then you were always...?” Bruce thought he had gone too far for a moment, and Jack would retreat from the conversation, from himself, from the mansion, and all Bruce’s efforts would be in vain.

But if Jack suspected Bruce to have some ulterior motive, he must have ultimately dismissed it, and relaxed his hold on the glass, letting out a sigh.

“No, I wasn't always like that,” he answered. “Not exactly, anyway. But whenever I try to think of a time before I was him, a thousand memories pop up—you would think I’d lived a dozen other lives—yet none of them have any real feeling of truth to them.” He shook his head tiredly. “That's what he'd do, you know. He invented all sorts of miserable pasts because he didn't want to be limited to just one. And now I don't have any that can be relied on.”

“We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to.”

Jack shook his head. “No, it's alright. What else have I got to talk about? It's been my life, until now. Well, not _mine_ ,” he corrected himself. “But it's all I know.”

Bruce leaned over in his seat, resting a hand briefly on Jack's shoulder.

“Things like this take time, like anything else, but not as long as you think. You’ll adjust to your new life before you even realize it.”

“Heh, I sure hope so.” Even Jack’s laugh was different from the Joker's—aloof, and unalarming; a blanched and lifeless sound. Somehow, it made Bruce feel uncomfortable in its own way.

“Have you thought of what you might want to do now that you're a new man?” Bruce asked, shifting the subject.

Jack shook his head. “No, not yet. It's difficult for someone with my past to find a place that would accept me.” He paused. “But it's not just that.” He looked down at his glass, hesitating before he continued.

“I know I shouldn't be picky about things like this, but I don't want to take just any job that’ll have me. If I could, I'd like to prevent my criminal past from having any power over this city any longer,” he explained. “I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s been happening in the news lately.”

Bruce thought for a minute. “You mean the drugs?”

Jack nodded in affirmation. “One in particular.”

In that case, there was only one drug Jack could mean.

“Ambrosia.”

There were always those in Gotham that had a morbid fascination with the effects of the Joker toxin. The unsettling yet gleeful smiles of its victims had made a certain few curious as to what a weaker version of its effects would be. Many poor imitations had appeared over the years. Laughing gas, Smilex, and Devil’s Grin were a few better known ones. More recently, a growing number were trying Ambrosia for the rumored god-like feeling of immortality it bestowed on its onset.

Most were cheap knockoffs—nothing like the original Joker toxin, but the latest concoction was different. And just like the original, Ambrosia was proving far more deadly than the others. After analyzing a sample of the drug, Bruce had come to the conclusion that either someone had been unlucky enough to come upon a store of the original Joker toxin, or even worse, had learned how to manufacture it.

“I’ve heard a little about it,” Bruce continued. “Overdose rates for Ambrosia are triple that of other Joker toxin knockoffs, and the problem is only getting worse with its increase in popularity.”

“That’s because it isn’t a knockoff,” Jack proclaimed. At Bruce's questioning look, he went on. “It's the real deal. I should know that more than anyone. All the symptoms fit with lower dosages of the toxin. Which means someone’s found out how to make it.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind it?” Bruce asked. Jack’s confirmation that someone was making it meant that he probably hadn't left any secret stores of the toxin anywhere. Which was unfortunate.

“No,” Jack replied, looking disappointed by that fact. “And I don’t think it would matter if I did at this point. I can’t stop people from taking it, but I might be able to do something to help stop the deaths from occurring,” he said, his eyes lighting with rare ambition as he spoke.  “I could help create an antidote.”

Bruce recalled Dr. Strayer’s words from earlier about Joker wanting to help undo some of the damage he had done. Now he had a better idea of what that meant. To date, an effective antidote for the Joker toxin did not exist. To have something like that around would save a lot of lives, even without the Joker at large in the city any longer.

“Looks like you’ve thought about what you want to do, after all.”

Jack shrugged, the ambition leaving his eyes as quickly as it had come. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. With my past, there's about as much a chance of that happening as Batman admitting himself to Arkham Asylum. You think any place would trust _me_ in a lab?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Jack still looked unconvinced, and Bruce could tell he didn't want to pursue the topic further at the moment.

“So what do you think of him, anyway, now that you're a new person?”

“Who?” Jack gave him a curious look.

“Batman.”

“Oh.” Jack looked away again. “Well, real or not, I guess he's affected all of us in one way or another.”

It took Bruce a moment to fully register the words. “What do you mean, real or not? You don't think Batman is real?”

“It's not that I don't think he's real,” Jack began, taking a drink from his glass, almost empty now, then straightening up in his chair before continuing. “I _know_ he isn't. I didn't use to think that way, of course, but that was before—you know.” He made a vague motion with his hands toward himself and let that finish his statement for him.

Hands, Bruce realized, that had gripped knives and pulled triggers, beaten and murdered innocents and criminals alike.

“But then who have you been fighting with all this time? Who's been stopping you—the Joker, I mean—if not him?” Bruce asked, forcing his attention away from Jack’s hands.

“Look at it this way. Fat bearded men dress up as Santa every year, and that doesn't make Santa any more real, does it?”

“No, but—”

“Look, just because someone dresses up as a bat, it doesn't make him Batman. There never _was_ a Batman.”

“You really do believe that, don't you?” Bruce remarked, his surprise genuine.

“Don't _you_?”

Bruce didn't answer.

Jack sighed and shook his head. “Deny it all you want, Batman is just a man with a misguided sense of justice who uses brute force and intimidation to get what he wants. It's pathetic, is what it is. He certainly isn't someone to fear, or look up to, or feel anything for. And if we're being really accurate, I'd say it's probably more than one guy working together. Although working together is probably giving them too much credit. Half of ‘em are probably copycats.” He took another drink.

The more Jack spoke about Batman, the more bothered he seemed to become at the very idea of him. But that’s all it was. Irritation, nothing more. Not a trace of the obsession that had afflicted him as the Joker.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” Bruce said, holding a hand up in defeat. “Just surprised me that you thought that, is all.” And it was the truth. Bruce never actually thought he'd be hearing this from the Joker, of all people. No, _Jack_. Jack was his name now. And the more Jack talked, the easier it was to think of him as Jack, and Jack alone—someone different in every way that mattered from the Joker.

“Well it shouldn't. Any sane person should think that.”

Something was wrong about this. Not simply Jack’s dismissal of Batman, but his belief that the vigilante wasn’t even real in the first place. Bruce had of course kept an eye on the other patients released from Arkham, but there had been nothing in the reports about this type of thought pattern being exhibited by the others.

But what if it wasn’t just Jack? Bruce hadn’t noticed anything unusual in the others when he’d monitored them, but from the start, he had worried that there might be more to Strayer’s treatment than she was letting on. He would need to retrace his steps with the others to see if there was something he had missed. He had not yet had direct contact with them like he had with Jack. Perhaps it had been a mistake to keep an eye on them from a distance.

But would it be worth it to investigate this further? Why question it now if the Joker really was sane? Maybe it was better to leave things as they were.

And yet, Bruce knew he would never forgive himself if his inaction ended up resulting in something worse later on. He'd always found it worthwhile to listen to his instincts, and whether Joker was changed or not, he had a feeling Strayer's treatment warranted further investigation.

“I've been asking you a lot of questions, haven’t I?”

“I don't really mind,” Jack said, relaxing back into his seat. “It's nice to talk about these things without feeling like every word I speak is being psychoanalyzed.” He studied Bruce a moment. “Even if it isn't exactly normal conversation.”

The chiming of the grandfather clock in the room announced the late hour. Bruce glanced at the clock, then set his drink back on the end table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the time.” He stood up from his seat. “I have to finish getting ready for a meeting tomorrow, but feel free to stay the night if you want to. I’ll have Alfred show you to one of the guest rooms.”

Bruce’s offer seemed to catch Jack off-guard.

“You're sure?” Jack asked. _Even knowing who I was?_ was the question underneath it.

If by some small chance Jack really was still the Joker, it would be better to have him here than in the city where he could harm thousands of civilians. But after their conversation tonight, Bruce was finding that idea harder and harder to believe. Considering the incident at the bar earlier, it was probably more accurate to say that he was protecting Jack from the people of the city than the other way around. Makeup and a new set of clothes could only go so far when everyone knew the face of the Joker. Especially right now when he was still a headline in the news.

He wondered if Jack suspected anything more about Bruce. A billionaire letting him stay at his mansion on little more than a whim seemed unbelievable enough. But even if Jack did feel like Bruce Wayne had some ulterior motive, it didn't seem like he cared much at the moment. Rather, he appeared to be in low spirits about things, and it seemed that depression had come hand in hand with sanity for the Joker.

But maybe that meant Bruce's show of kindness would actually do some good for Jack. Maybe his instincts were wrong about the treatment, and there was no need to worry about the Joker or any of the others who had been released from Arkham. All those times he had saved the Joker in the past when he could have let him die a justified death, and maybe now it could finally mean something in the end.

“It's fine, really. I've got plenty of room to spare,” Bruce replied amiably. “Make yourself at home.”

He hoped Alfred wouldn't mind too much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to introduce a new character in this story because I wanted to have someone who you couldn’t immediately predict whether their intentions were good or bad. That character is of course Dr. Strayer.
> 
> As far as timeline goes, Bruce has been Batman for a while—long enough to have history with the Joker, but not long enough for the Batfamily to exist yet. I debated whether to include them or not, but I decided not to make it any more challenging for myself by including characters that would complicate the story further. In other words, I'm lazy. Sorry! :(
> 
> That said, one of them may make an appearance as their normal self later on…
> 
> Some inspirations for this story: _Going Sane_ , _A Serious House on Serious Earth_ , _Cacophony_ , the _Arkham_ games, BTAS... and so on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Next chapter will be up sooner.

Outside a dingy apartment building, Gotham’s sky strained through hues of red and orange in one final attempt at color before nightfall took over. The day had been unseasonably warm compared to the winter of yesterday, erasing any traces of the snowy sleet that had fallen. Some of the tenants had even cracked open their windows, letting in a bit of fresh air before the evening chill set in.

Humming a light tune, one of these tenants stepped into their kitchen, only to let out a frightened yelp at the dark figure looming over them.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” The man’s voice squeaked at his unannounced visitor. “Please, I haven't done anything, I swear!”

“I'm just here to ask you some questions, Jervis,” answered the shadow.

Batman stepped forward, blocking the bright glare of sunset through the window. He gave his surroundings a quick assessing look. The kitchen only had room for a few basic appliances: a small gas stove, sink and refrigerator. In the center stood a small round dining table, and underneath was a lackluster tiled floor. It was the kind of place that might be called cozy by polite visitors, and claustrophobic by those who were being more honest.

“Questions?” Tetch repeated, backing up against the far wall of the kitchen, shoulders tensed next to the peeling wallpaper. “About what?”

“Your treatment.”

“What about it?” Tetch asked. A slight tremor was visible in his hands.

“Please, Jervis. I need you to relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m here because I trust your opinion,” Batman said calmly, as if pacifying a frightened animal. He kept his arms relaxed non-combatively at his sides.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“—Oh.” Tetch sent him a nervous glance up and down. He slowly unfroze from his spot. “I—I see. Of course.” Then, as if his movements were guided by habit, he went over to the stove, igniting the burner where a kettle was already placed, then stood on his toes to remove a tin of tea leaves from the cupboard next to it. The routine seemed to relax him a little, and he turned back to Batman while he waited for the water to boil. “Alright then. What is it you’d like to know?”

“It’s about Strayer,” Batman said, watching Tetch as he went about his routine. “Is there anything she hasn't publicly disclosed? Anything that seemed suspicious while you were receiving treatment at Arkham?”

“Suspicious?” Tetch furrowed his brow as he prepared the tea leaves in a strainer, setting them inside a large teacup. “No, not that I noticed. Everything she did was very helpful to me. That’s not to say it was easy to go through, but in the end I'm very grateful to Dr. Strayer for helping me overcome my… obsession.”

Batman’s jaw tensed a little, but his tone maintained its steady composure. “I need you to be honest with me. Have you ever had any thoughts about returning to your former ways?”

Tetch frowned at that. He didn’t look nervous to answer, though. If anything, he appeared insulted by the question.

“Since I left Arkham, you mean? No, of course not.” His attention went back to the stove where the kettle was just starting to sing. As he turned off the heat, he glanced back to Batman. “Would you like some?”

At Batman’s silence, Tetch shrugged and continued his routine, pouring hot water over the dried leaves and watching the steam rise from the cup as the tea steeped. After a minute, he turned back to face Batman with the cup cradled in his hands. He sent an awkward glance over to Batman, as if he had only just now become aware of how his ritual looked.

“Some habits you never lose, I suppose,” he explained as he moved to sit at the table. “But I assure you, Batman, my criminal past is behind me. It must be difficult for you to accept something like this—it is for myself, sometimes. But the fact is I am no longer the person I was before.” Tetch looked down, frowning momentarily at the cup in his hands. “I wouldn't say that I'm happy now, but I don't think most people are, when it comes right down to it. And I'm not unhappy.”

“Anything else?”

Tetch considered for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

He blew on his tea a few times before taking a sip. His eyes closed, and for a moment he looked completely at peace.

“Jervis,” Batman persisted. “Do you believe the Mad Hatter was ever real?”

Tetch opened his eyes. “Real?” he repeated, looking a bit taken aback by the question. His bewilderment soon faded, and his expression turned thoughtful instead. Another minute passed before he finally gave him an answer. “Well, I suppose he did become real for a while. I certainly thought of myself as him, anyway,” he admitted with a sad shake of his head. “I believed in him.”

Tetch took another sip of his tea, frowning in thought at his words before he went on. “But at the end of the day, no. He was just another dangerous delusion.”

“And me?” Batman dared to ask further.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Am I just another one of your delusions?”

Tetch looked at him with disbelief. “What sort of question is that? You’re standing right in front of me, aren’t you?”

Batman didn’t answer, going silent as he considered Tetch's response. After another minute, he finally nodded.

“Of course. Thank you for your time,” Batman said, then turned to leave.

What was left of Tetch’s calmness dissipated. “W-wait!" he said, lifting a hand up, only to spill some tea on his hand in the process.  

Batman turned his head back a fraction.

"Things might have worked out well for me,” Tetch explained, drying his hand absently on his clothes while he spoke. “But I've heard...”

“Heard what?”

“Well, I think Jonathan's been having some problems. Nothing to be concerned about,” Tetch added quickly, “but I don't think he's been able to fully adjust to his new life yet. I would try talking to him if you're going to talk with anyone else.”

Batman gave a final nod, then turned back toward the window.

“Batman?” he heard Tetch speak up again behind him as he placed a hand on the windowsill. He stopped where he was.

“I’m glad we could have a pleasant conversation, for once,” Tetch continued softly. “Maybe you’ll stay for tea next time?”

Tetch sounded almost regretful, as if he had just realized he enjoyed having the company—Bat or not—and was sad to see him go.

Batman turned his head back one final time.“Take care, Jervis.” He returned his attention to the window, testing a hand on the windowsill. The wood was starting to come loose on one side, but it still seemed stable enough.

Tetch’s hand waved Batman off in the window’s reflection, apparently happy enough to get any response from him. “Off you go then, like you do.”

Tetch began humming as Batman slipped through the window, seeming to be a much better mood than when Batman had first arrived.

Just before he was outside of hearing range, Bruce heard Tetch speak quietly, as if to himself:

“See? I’m good. I can help, now. I’m good.”

 

* * *

 

Evening had just set in when Batman found Crane in a small, isolated area of the park not far from his apartment. He sat on a bench, gloves laid at his side, with a book in his hands.

“You're out late. A bit dark for reading, isn’t it?”

Crane froze for a second, then looked up. “I wasn't aware I had a curfew.” His book was lit faintly by a nearby streetlamp. “What do you want?”

“I have some questions for you,” Batman said, making a note of how different Crane’s reaction was from Tetch’s earlier.

“Do you?” he said without apparent interest, then returned his attention to his book. “Well, ask away. I've got nothing to hide.”

“Not you," Batman corrected him. "The doctors at Arkham. Strayer.”

Crane kept his eyes on the book. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing to investigate there.”

“I've known you long enough, Crane, to know when there's something you aren't telling me.”

Crane looked up at that, eyes dark with suspicion. “Why do you care anyway? Isn't it good enough that I'm ‘better’ now?”

“The truth is good enough.”

Crane watched him for another minute.

“You haven’t changed much,” he said at last, looking back at his book with a small sigh. He flipped a page, but Batman knew he hadn’t read it. “Why don’t you go bother the clown? Or whoever he is now. He's the one you're interested in. Not me.” Crane smiled when Batman didn’t answer. “Oh, of course. You already have. No luck there, either, right? How disappointing.”

Batman saw the book was an old hardcover, worn at the edges and covered in faded buckram. Although the title wasn’t visible, the header on the page indicated the chapter was titled: _Case 1: A Psychical Invasion_.

“I should have known you'd enjoy reading Algernon Blackwood.”

Silence. Pause. Flip. “Well, I used to.”

“Used to?”

When Crane didn’t answer, Batman decided to wait. It wasn't long before Crane closed the book shut with a thud and flung it onto the bench beside him, shaking his head with a weary sigh.

“It's no use,” Crane exclaimed. “I’ve tried all my favorites, but even in the realm of fiction, the thrill just isn't there anymore.”

“And why is that?”

Crane glared at Batman for a moment, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that was hard to miss, and soon enough, he relented.

“Fine, have it your way. Not like I have anything to lose from it.” Crane glanced down at his book as he thought of his next words. There was no sound in the park aside from the faint rustle of dead leaves as the wind picked up. 

“I've tried talking to the others about Dr. Strayer's therapy,” Crane finally said. “But none of them seem to remember it like I do. Maybe it's different for everyone, I don't know.”

“What don't they remember?”

“It's hard to describe. It's more like a feeling than anything else,” Crane explained, then let out a faint laugh. “Sounds stupid even saying it out loud.”

“I'd like to hear it anyway.”

Crane considered what to say for a moment, then began. “The sessions would always start out normal enough. She’d ask me questions, I’d answer. But every time, my memory would start to blur after a certain point. All the details would fade out. But sometimes I still remember...” Crane creased his brow in thought “...a sound. I can't remember where it originated from, only that she brought it with her, I think. Whatever it was. Removed it from her bag. She didn't keep it at Arkham.”

“What was it like?”

“I can't really say, except that it made me feel like the happiest I'd ever been and the saddest all at once... And then nothing.” Crane shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, it's probably nothing worth looking into. A dream, for all I know, with all the drugs we’re put on there.”

“Was that all?”

“Like I said, it’s not much.”

It was something to go on, at least.

“Thank you, Jonathan.”

Crane hesitated. He grabbed his book before standing up. “You know, while you’re here, I—well, I know I've done a lot of bad things in my past,” he said, tucking the book under his arm so he could put on his gloves. “Things I had no right to inflict on others, even you. But, well… Dr. Strayer really did help us. I really am different now, even if I'm not any nicer.” Crane busied himself a moment longer with his gloves, as if distracting himself. “What I'm trying to say is—”

Crane looked up again, but the park was empty. His hands lowered back to his side, and he shook his head with a sigh.

“—sorry for ever thinking I could apologize to you.”

 

* * *

 

When Bruce got back to the manor it was already late, and his food had long gone cold. Alfred had prepared his meal earlier than usual in order to keep up appearances with Jack around. Hopefully it wouldn't be long before Bruce could get to the bottom of this. Then Alfred wouldn’t have to worry about maintaining the image that Bruce Wayne was just your average, run-of-the mill billionaire who kept strange hours because of his business and philanthropic activities, and not because of a secret identity that required the majority of his focus.

“How was your day?” Bruce asked Jack as Alfred went to reheat his food for him. They were both sitting in the smaller dining room next to the kitchen. It was the place where Bruce had eaten with his parents when they had still been alive. The main dining room was reserved for larger social gatherings and rarely got much use otherwise.

“Mostly uneventful,” Jack answered, as if the question was a daily occurrence between them. “In other words, good. Alfred gave me a tour of the place, and after that I spent most of the day exploring the grounds, and later on dozed off in the library.” He sipped at a drink while he spoke—brandy, it looked like tonight. Apparently not so disagreeable with him after all. “I, uh, also learned that it’s impossible help Alfred with any of his daily tasks without being reprimanded for it.”

Bruce chuckled. “That sounds like Alfred. Best not try to out-butler him. You’re a guest, like I said.”

“Right.” Jack sipped his drink again, seeming more comfortable around Bruce than he had been the night before.

Alfred brought Bruce's food soon after that, and was away again before Bruce knew it. He had to give Alfred some credit; he was doing a good job of acting like an average butler with Jack around. As Bruce began to eat his meal, seared salmon with lightly roasted vegetables, he realized he was more hungry than he thought.

Across from him Jack sat with his drink, and Bruce watched from the corner of his eye as Jack absently traced patterns over the table with his finger, resting his head on his other hand as he looked down at nothing in particular.

Then, out of nowhere: “You know, you have bats in your attic.”

Bruce deliberately remembered his food. He watched Jack surreptitiously for any warning signs of being Joker: a manic glow to his eyes, limbs tense with restless energy, an impossibly wide grin—but saw none of these signature traits. Bruce relaxed a little. The words probably hadn't been meant to provoke him, at least not in the same way Jack intended. He chewed on his bite of salmon for a minute before answering. “Well, with the bachelor life I lead, in a place as big as this, it’s hard to turn away the company when I get it,” he offered lightly as an explanation after finishing his bite. “Besides, they keep to themselves, mostly. And they keep the bugs down, so that’s a bonus.”

Jack was watching Bruce with an amused quirk to his lips. “That’s some strange company you like to keep.”

Bruce thought he’d have to come up with something else to say in response, but thankfully Jack saved him the trouble.

“You’re right, though, about this place. Seeing it in person—well, there’s a loneliness in these walls that’s hard to ignore. But I have to admit, I enjoyed that today. It was nice to have privacy— _real privacy_ —for once. You’d think I’d have gotten that feeling often enough back at Arkham, being cooped up alone in a room and all, but the cameras sort of ruin the effect, you know?”

Bruce hid his relief that there was no more mention of bats, coming from the person who used to be obsessed with one of them in particular. “I can imagine they would.”

“I’m actually beginning to see the appeal in living in a place like this.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “Only now?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to get too used to it. How would I ever integrate and become a useful member of society, way out here? It’d be like Arkham all over again.” Though he spoke in mock seriousness, there was a playful glint in his eye when he looked at Bruce.

Bruce shook his head in false offense, but was unable to keep himself from a small smile.

“Well, I’ve always thought that the best way to integrate into society is to be away from it,” Bruce responded, and made a mental note that for better or worse, at least some of Jack’s humor had survived intact through Strayer's treatment.

“I’m not surprised,” Jack answered, his smile warmer than the one from yesterday. “But somehow I think there’s more to you than that,” he said, eyeing Bruce in that thoughtful way again. “So, how about it? Care to tell me more about yourself now that you’ve learned a bit about little ol’ me?”

Bruce finished his bite and swallowed. “Now that's a can of worms you don't want to open.”

“Oh, come on. Can't possibly be worse than mine was.”

Bruce glanced at the clock on the wall. “Maybe another time,” he deflected. He set his fork down, then stood. He watched Jack for a moment, noticing his shoulders fall at Bruce's abrupt announcement.

“You know,” Bruce said suddenly. “About that job you mentioned…” He saw Jack look up with a bit of interest. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I might be able to help you out. Wayne Enterprises might have some room for someone with your expertise."

Jack looked almost as if he didn't believe what Bruce was saying.

“You're serious?”

"I can't make any promises, but I'll talk to some people, and do my best to make it work," Bruce explained. "In the meantime feel free to stick around for the time being. Joking aside, it might be good for you to take a break from the city for a while.”

“Wow, I—" Jack was momentarily speechless. "I truly don't know what to say." He stood up, stepped over to Bruce, and taking Bruce's hand into his gloved one, gave Bruce’s hand a vigorous shake. "Thank you, Bruce!" He beamed widely. "For everything.”

Bruce smiled politely back as Jack continued to shake his hand with renewed energy, his disappointment from earlier now apparently vanished.

"See you tomorrow, then?"

Jack gave an eager nod. "Tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Bruce slipped away unnoticed to the Batcave after his meal, entering through the old Grandfather clock entrance set to the time of his parents’ death. As he reached the bottom of the passage the familiar cool scent of the cavern greeted him.

Alfred followed him down not long after, the soft clatter of footsteps announcing his arrival.  

"Do you feel safe having him stay here another night?" Bruce inquired without looking at Alfred, already in his suit. His cowl rested on a chair by the workbench as he methodically prepared for his departure.

"Funnily enough, my safety is the one thing I feel confident about right now," Alfred replied. Bruce could feel Alfred’s eyes on him as he collected the tools he might need that night. "Yours, on the other hand . . . I just worry that you might be taking things too far with this investigation. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes?"

"You worry too much, Alfred," Bruce said dismissively. "From what Crane mentioned earlier, this might be something worth looking into.”

"Just be careful out there," Alfred cautioned.

Having finished inspecting his gear, Bruce placed each item in their respective place on his utility belt. Finally he turned to Alfred. "The same goes for you, Alfred. Don't let your guard down too much around Jack. Even if he seems harmless now, there's no telling how permanent that change really is."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Alfred answered, a barely perceptible smile crossing his face. Bruce knew that despite Alfred's innocuous appearance he was capable of handling himself in almost any situation. "I'll keep an eye on him. If I notice anything unusual, I'll be sure to let you know right away."

Bruce placed his cowl over his head in one smooth motion, locking it in place. He stepped away from Alfred, making his way to over the platform where the Batmobile was. He was just able to reach the platform when Alfred spoke up behind him.

"Bruce—” he began.

Bruce had come to a halt next to the door of the Batmobile.“Yes, Alfred?” he asked when Alfred didn’t continue.

Alfred hesitated. “What if nothing’s wrong with Strayer's treatment? What if the Joker really is cured?"

For a moment the only sounds in the cave were the slow drip of water and the distant _woosh_ of the underground waterfall leading to one of the cave's hidden exits.

Bruce slowly let out a breath of air. He felt the muscles in his face relax a little, though Alfred could only see a portion of his expression with the mask on.

"If I don't find anything after tonight, then I'll admit I was wrong," he said at last.

Although Alfred didn’t answer him, Bruce thought he saw the faintest nod of understanding.

Bruce opened the Batmobile and got in, sending one last glance at Alfred. "Let's hope for both our sakes that I am.”

 

* * *

 

Strayer's apartment was empty when Batman arrived.

He had been hoping to locate the item Crane had mentioned earlier if she was asleep, but it was unlikely to be at her apartment now. For a moment he felt another flicker of doubt, wondering if he really was right about pursuing Strayer. But he had already come this far, and it wouldn't hurt to see if there were any other clues around while he was here.

The apartment had few embellishments outside the standard furnishings, and while it didn't feel bare, Bruce got the feeling that Strayer didn't put much thought toward such things in a place she was rarely around. It seemed he wouldn’t find anything of interest here, and would have to find some other opportunity to get a hold of whatever item it was she kept with her.

As Bruce passed by a bookshelf, something caught his attention. He picked the item up for a closer look. It was a framed photograph, showing two girls smiling next to each other. One he recognized as Strayer. The other girl seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place where he knew her from.

_Where had he seen that face?_

Just as the recognition hit him, he heard someone placing a key in the lock, and quickly set the frame back on the shelf.

For a second he debated leaving and coming back later to search for the item, but he was going to have to face Strayer at some point or another, and it might as well be now.

As soon as Strayer opened the door, she acted as if something was off. Bruce had left the door to the balcony cracked open in case he needed to make a quick departure, and the cold air leaking through had gradually dropped the temperature of the room.

Without turning on the lights, Strayer spoke, remaining in the entryway of her apartment.

“Whoever is in there, you better come out now or I'll have the neighbors call the police.”

When only silence answered her, Strayer waited a minute before cautiously flipping the lights on.

“Shit.” Bruce heard her curse under her breath when she saw who it was. Then she seemed to collect herself, putting on a face of composure.

“Batman? I was wondering when you'd come snooping around." She took a step inside her apartment, then shut the door behind her. Despite the cold air streaming through her apartment, she removed her jacket, setting her work bag from Arkham down beside her as she did so. "You think just because you control the cops in this city, you can go breaking into people's apartments on a whim?”

She stepped into the living room, then, walking boldly past where Batman stood so she could slide the balcony door closed, then turned to face him.

“Why come to me now? I've already released three of Arkham’s patients before the Joker."

“I only want the truth, Strayer,” Batman finally decided to answer. “No one just rehabilitates these people. Not him.”

Strayer smiled in mild amusement. “Until me, you mean.” She watched him for a moment, this time with a more critical eye. “I can’t help but think, Batman, that maybe your own methods are the ones in question here.”

“You're hiding something. And I will find out.”

“I'm always happy to talk about my work,” Stayer stated simply. A challenge. Bruce wasn't entirely convinced of her sincerity, but took it as an offer to ask her a few questions anyway.

“Why did you help Tetch first?”

He saw her eyes flicker to the photograph he had seen just before her arrival, and knew he had been right about his earlier assumption.

"Jervis Tetch,” Strayer repeated his name, as if that explained it. “Otherwise known as the Mad Hatter. If I could help a man with a name like that turn his life around, then I could help anyone, right?"

“This photo," Batman said, lifting the picture frame from the bookshelf again. "That's your sister, isn't it?”

Strayer didn't speak, but her look confirmed it.

“I recognize her. One of Jervis Tetch’s first victims.”

"Third,” Strayer corrected him, with an unreadable look in her eye.  

"I'm sorry," Batman said. There was sympathy in his voice, as well as apology, for not being able to save her sister.

Strayer took the photo back from him, eyeing it for a moment with a sad look, then gently placed the frame back where it belonged.

Batman gave her a silent, knowing look.

“Look, this isn’t—” Strayer had to pause, taking a breath to calm herself. “This isn’t about Tetch. Not really. But if you really want to know so badly about how my treatment works, I can tell you all the details. You'll be sorry when you realize there's nothing to worry about, though. My methods are entirely legitimate." She hesitated. "Even if they are a little unconventional."

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Come on then, if you want me to show it to you.”

“It?”

“Yes, it. I... keep it home with me when I'm not treating patients. Secrets of the trade, you know. At least until I've mastered the technique.”

Batman followed behind Strayer as she went back to where she had set her bag earlier.

“Just a moment," she said as she dug through the bag's contents. "Here it is.” She held the item up for him to see.

Batman kept his guard up, then relaxed when he realized what it was. 

“A music box?”

“By all appearances. But not just that. Amadeus himself used it to treat his own patients for a while. One patient, in particular."

"Amadeus? The original Arkham?" Bruce said, unable to hide his surprise. "This belongs to him?"

Strayer nodded. "It was his daughter's originally, but it's been modified since.”

“Where did you get this?”

“It was more of an accident.” She looked at the box with admiration, fingers running over the faint arcane symbols that had been etched into the wooden exterior. “I’ve always been curious about the asylum's history, and often wander the premises in my spare time. One one of my walks, I noticed something strange about one of the walls. A curious marking that seemed out of place. This was what was behind it, along with one of his journals describing how he used it." She motioned to her bag where he assumed the journal was. "I often get the sense that the place has more secrets than it does patients. I'm sure many of Amadeus' secrets are still hidden in those walls. Only one less, now.”

“How does it work?”

“To be honest, I'm not really certain," Strayer admitted. "I know I said my methods were legitimate, but... this isn't very far from some other bizarre techniques out there—except that this one provides results. It works. It's just the _how_ part that remains unclear. Some combination of visual and auditory hypnotherapy, I believe.

"His journals don’t offer much of an explanation, either, other than that it required a rotation of certain drugs in correspondence with the hypnotherapy. I’ve been able to improve on the technique since then, and only require the patient to be medicated during the sessions, and not outside them."

"May I look inside?"

Strayer gently opened the lid of the music box at Batman's request. Unwound, it remained silent.

“There’s nothing there," Bruce remarked, expecting to see a spinning dancer or something of the like inside. It had once belonged to a little girl, after all. "Was it always like that?”

“For as long as I've had it. But my patients always see something. My understanding is that the mind hates seeing empty spaces, and under the right conditions, makes things up to fill in the blanks."

"After you drug them, you mean."

Strayer ignored him. "I'm afraid I don't know its inner workings, but I do know that it works, and that's all that matters for my purposes. Amadeus stumbled across something truly remarkable,” she said, then closed the box with a sad shake of her head. “It’s too bad it was too late for himself by the time he realized it. After the tragic murder of his wife and daughter, he let the madness of grief overtake him. I suppose you see now why I kept this part of my treatment secret.”

She set the box aside, then offered Batman a small leather-bound book. “Feel free to look through his journal, if you'd like. If you read it, I think you'll see he and I shared a few things in common. A part of me likes to think I'm helping to complete his work, as someone who has also lost a family member to violence.”

Batman opened the journal while she spoke. The pages were in good condition for their age. The journal must have been kept in a sealed container during its time in the asylum walls.

He flipped through the pages, browsing quickly through the entries. “This is… but this means...”

“What a troubled life he had, Amadeus. Tried to do some good in the world, and where did it get him?"

There was a sudden pain in Bruce's neck, just underneath his cowl.

"Reminds me of someone else. I'm sorry, Batman," Strayer said, withdrawing an empty syringe.

“What have you—”

“I’ve learned from other staff that it’s a good idea to keep one or two of these on hand at Arkham. It’s the first time I’ve personally had to use one, though.”

Her words sounded far away when she next spoke.

“You wanted to know how it works, so I'm going to show you. And I'm afraid that Gotham's most famous bat needs help.”

Bruce watched distantly as the floor came up to meet him, and everything went dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed that the total number of chapters went up. I am now estimating this to be between 8-10 chapters long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone else stuck in the polar vortex made it through alright! My eyelashes nearly froze off the other day but I am otherwise unscathed

Bruce slowly opened his eyes.

“You're awake.”

He turned his head toward the voice, at first seeing only a dim blur of colors. Gradually Strayer came into focus.

“Don't worry, you seem to be uninjured from your fall. I apologize for not being able to get you to a chair in time,” Strayer explained nonchalantly, sitting down on a chair in front of Bruce as he slowly remembered his surroundings.

“Thankfully, while I specialize in psychotherapy, I am also a trained physician. I'm sure you're quite familiar with that line of work. It was your father’s profession, after all. Right, Bruce?”

“How... how long have I been out?” Bruce chose not to acknowledge her question. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction now that she knew his true identity.  He tried moving his arms, but they had been fastened to the chair he was in, along with his legs and torso. His cowl and utility belt had also been removed, but he did not see where Strayer had put them. He glanced around the room, looking for a clock to tell the time. Judging from the darkness outside the window, at least an hour must have passed since he had last been conscious. “What did you do with my things?”

Strayer shook her head at him. “This time, I'm the one asking questions.”

Bruce turned his focus away from his surroundings to analyze his internal state. He was aware enough to discern that he had been drugged with something other than the sedative after he had lost consciousness, but couldn’t identify what. His mind felt muddled, yet strangely attentive. He swallowed, noticing his lips felt dry.

“It makes sense now why Jack was at your mansion. It was just your way of keeping an eye on him.”

Bruce figured Strayer would know about Jack. He wouldn't be surprised if she kept some kind of tracker on all the patients she had released from Arkham. If she had questioned him about it, Bruce had been prepared to give her the same explanation he had given Jack earlier about ensuring his money was going to the right place at the mental institution. But that was irrelevant now that she knew his true identity.

"You have a real fixation on crime in this city, don't you?" At Bruce's continued silence, she smiled. “You know, there are a lot of people who say that many of the criminals around today—the really bad ones, I mean—wouldn't be here without you. Do you agree with them?”

Bruce didn't answer.

“Between us,” she went on, unbothered by his lack of response, “I think they're wrong. There’s a sickness in this city that’s older than you. The criminals would be here without you, one way or another. Your existence hasn’t had any effect other than changing their attire. Your actions aren't wrong, they are just ineffective. But I can’t blame you for trying."

Sitting on the end table beside Strayer was the music box. Bruce must have been affected more than he thought to have only noticed it now. The lid was closed, but Bruce had a feeling not for long.

"You have done some good, I’ll grant you that," Strayer continued. "But I think the time has come for Gotham to say goodbye to Batman as we know him and look for a more effective solution to crime."

Strayer caught Bruce eyeing the music box, sending a quick glance to it herself before fixing her attention back on him. She shifted in her seat, tapping her foot a little on the floor. She looked anxious to begin.

”What are you going to do to me?" Bruce finally asked, hoping to buy some time with her response, though he had no plan of escape yet. He couldn’t try breaking out of his restraints with both his wrists bound to the arms of the chair where she could plainly see them.

As if on queue, Strayer cleared her throat, sliding the music box closer to her reach. “Normally, I take a more gradual approach with my patients," Strayer lightly informed him, "but in your case I think we’ll get right to the heart of the matter.”

Without further delay, she reached out to the box and carefully wound it. Trapped where he was, Bruce could only dread the words she would say next.

“Relax," she said, noticing Bruce's arms tense up. "There's no use struggling against it. Think of it this way. If it worked on the Joker, it's going to work on you. I know it seems hard right now, but I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t actually think it worked. You just have to trust me.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. But it’s for your own good.”

With that, she opened the lid of the box. This time, the box was no longer empty.

“How did you..." Bruce couldn't help voicing his surprise. "Is this some kind of trick?”

Strayer studied him with new interest. “What do you see?”

"You…” Bruce swallowed. “You can't see it?"

Strayer shook her head. "It would make my job a great deal easier if I could, but if we're going to make any progress together, you'll have to describe it to me."

Bruce hesitated. Gradually, almost beneath his awareness, the soft tune of the music box grew louder until he was completely enveloped in its sound. His arms relaxed, and he forgot everything else around him.

“I see…”

 

* * *

 

It was as if he had been transported to a place outside of time. There was a grand room filled with people in the most extravagant dress. Lights adorned the room around them in a dazzling array. It was a ball, Bruce realized, but no ordinary one. Bruce watched as everyone moved in dreamlike flow to the music. Everything seemed to glow in a vibrant light, brighter than all the gilded chandeliers and candelabras combined could make it. It felt like a memory from long ago, something safe and untouched by his future.

It was then that Bruce noticed a familiar pair emerge from the crowd of other dancers. They seemed to recognize him right away.

"Bruce, there you are," his mother greeted as she drew closer, every bit as elegant as Bruce remembered. She wore a simple full-length evening gown that somehow still managed not to look out of place among the other lavishly dressed guests.

Bruce blinked, as if he'd just woken up from a vivid dream and was still adjusting to the world around him. A bizarre, but wonderful world where his parents had still been alive.

"Where have you been?" his father asked, standing next to his mother. "Bored with the ball?"

Bruce wanted to respond to his parents, but something held him back. He didn’t rush into this their arms, didn't tell them how much he missed them, didn't explain how Alfred had been the one to look after him all these years in their absence. He didn't do anything at all. 

Why would he? He had never lost them. They had been here all along.

"You'll be more interested in things like this when you’re older," his mother explained with a warm smile, one Bruce had somehow forgotten. The slight asymmetry was not apparent in any of their family portraits.

"I'm not sure about that," replied his father, winking at Bruce. "Come on, let's get you home."

Bruce would have given anything for a chance to go back with them. For the chance to start over again, now that he knew where the path in his old life had led.

And in another life, maybe he would have.

But something else was calling to him just beyond the boundary of that timeless room. It was a darker place, obscured in his mind right now by the light around him and the warmth of his parents’ gaze, but it was just as real and unchanging as this room was. It had been part of the dreams of his childhood—along with the nightmares he'd had, after—

After…

After what?

His parents sensed his inner conflict. Bruce felt their hands brush his shoulders, and knew their touch was real. He didn’t have to question it.

But even if it was real...

"I can't," Bruce told them. "I can't go back with you. There's something else I have to do."

“Bruce," his father said, mouth forming into a frown. "You don't have to go there. You can stay with us now. ”

"Why leave?" his mother echoed, worry entering her eyes.

Despite his parents’ protests, he moved closer to the doorway that led to the other place. He had to. He couldn't ignore it anymore.

“We're going to lose him again, aren't we," his mother murmured softly behind him as the distance between them grew.

"It'll be alright, Martha," his father assured her, resting an arm around her shoulder. But an uneasiness was still apparent in his eyes.

His mother shook her head, breaking free from his father's grasp when she saw Bruce had reached the doorway. “Come back here this instant, Bruce Wayne! Don't you dare hurt us like that!” Her tone had sharpened, but Bruce knew she was only yelling because she was afraid. He saw tears in her eyes, and her voice shook.

Bruce hesitated just beyond the doorway.

What was he thinking? Why would he ever choose to leave?

As he wavered, the door began to close in front of him, blocking his parents from view.

"Wait!" Bruce's hand reached out to stop it, but he had already hesitated too long, and the door slammed shut with a heavy thud, leaving him alone in the empty hallway.

There was no handle to open the door. No way of going back now.

In this place there were no words. No sounds. No laughter. Only darkness. There was no way to protect himself from it. Instead, he let it surround him. He embraced it, feeling a familiar sensation wash over him. Slowly he became a part of it. He remembered everything again. There was no fear here. Only the thrill of the fight, and the will to keep going. A terrible force in him that never wavered as he pursued his objective. No matter how impossible that goal was to attain.

But something was different here. It was like entering a city by a familiar road in the middle of the night, when a route known so well by day became unrecognizable. He had thought he'd known this place by heart, but now all the angles were wrong, and nothing seemed the same.

To his horror, he realized he could not move correctly anymore.  No matter what he did, each action he took felt like a grave mistake. One by one, leading up to the final...

Through the darkness, he noticed a window. Only when he looked through it did he realize where he was.

His parents were standing above him. They were clothed in black, their eyes cast downward, but not quite at him. Although Bruce could not hear what they were saying, he could make a good guess who it was they were mourning. The world was gray behind them, and if he strained his ears enough he could even hear the bitter howl of the wind that left his parent’s shivering in its grip.

Even buried in a grave, Bruce could hear a soft tune playing in the quiet earth around him.

After what felt like too brief a time, his parents left him alone in the cemetery. The wind died down, and the sky darkened, but Bruce did not know true loneliness until the music, too, had stopped.

 

* * *

 

It was the fear that woke him.

Bruce left his room, making his way down the long hallway—different from the one that had haunted him in his dreams, though it still had the same sense of foreboding. He entered his parents’ room, stepping softly to their bed, then gently nudged his mother's shoulder until she woke.

"What is it?" she asked, sitting up a little. Her voice was heavy with sleep.

Now that she was awake, Bruce felt ashamed to admit why he had come.

He swallowed. "I had a nightmare.”

"It's alright, Bruce," his mother said, reassuring him despite the tiredness in her voice.

"I know it's not real," he explained, sensing his mother's unsaid words. "But it keeps coming back whenever I try to sleep."

His mother nodded in understanding. "Dreams can still be scary, even if they aren't real."

Bruce knew she was right, no matter how embarrassing it was to admit it. He felt guilty disturbing his mother from her rest knowing both his parents led a busy life. He was getting too old to come running to them whenever he had a nightmare anymore, but he couldn't help it that night. The fear had seemed so strong that he was certain if he hadn't left his room he would have spent the entire night awake or caught in a recurring nightmare, unable to escape.

"Do you ever have bad dreams?" he asked her.

"Once in a while," his mother said. "But your father protects me from them so they never do any real harm. And I protect him from his."

"What's wrong?" his father asked, just now waking up. He saw Bruce standing next to the bed, then quickly pieced together what was going on. "Can't sleep?"

"He had a bad dream," his mother explained.

"Ah. Come on then," said his father to Bruce, gently patting the center of the bed.

Wisely reading their son's behavior, they didn't ask him what his dream had been about, and Bruce didn't bring it up. He didn't want to have to think about it anymore, and now that he was with them, the dream was already beginning to fade to the back of his mind, small and insignificant in their presence.

"You can sleep now, Bruce,” his mother said, stroking his hair as he settled in close to her.

“Don't worry. We'll keep the bad dreams away."

 

* * *

 

“Bruce.”

A voice emerged from the silence, and it took Bruce a few seconds to register his own name. He couldn't be certain what time it was anymore. The room was too quiet, though he didn’t understand why it felt that way.

“Bruce.”

His eyes focused on the doctor in front of him. He noticed the music box in the corner of his vision, then slowly began to remember.

When Strayer saw that she had his attention, she continued. “Let’s start again from where we left off.” She sighed and adjusted her position on the seat. He realized it must have been a while since she had last slept.

“Bruce, why do you do what you do?” Strayer asked, articulating each word so she was sure he understood. “What keeps you returning to this”—she hesitated for a second—“job of yours, night after night?”

The room was still too quiet somehow, even with her words. Bruce didn't realize why until he heard the winding of the music box.

“Take your time in answering. Let it come to you,” Strayer said, then released her hand.

The music started, and Bruce’s vision went out of focus.

This time he tried to fight against it.

“You were right, Strayer," Bruce managed to say. "I could never help them like you did. But... whatever you think, I’m not against you for doing it." He swallowed, digging his hands into the arms of the chair to try to stay focused. "In fact, it’s what I’ve always wanted."

And it was true for the most part. He would never have been able to save the Joker. Before Strayer, he would have argued nobody could.

“I didn't want to admit it," Bruce confessed. "But I see that now. Your treatment works."

Strayer watched him in silence. It took every ounce of energy for Bruce to say his next words:

"You don’t need to do this anymore.”

“It’s alright, Bruce," a voice said. But it wasn’t the voice of Dr. Strayer.  

He turned his head to glimpse the owner of the voice, even though he already knew who it was.

"You don't need to fight her. Let her help you," his father said, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder. His words were gentle as he advised him.

In spite of his struggle, the visions had come back.

"I can't. I can't let her do this."

“Who do you see?” Strayer interrupted them.

Bruce realized his mistake, and swallowed, looking away from his father and from Strayer.

“They're still alive.”

“Who?” Strayer asked. When Bruce didn't clarify, she added, “Your parents?”

Bruce remained silent.

“Is this what they wanted for you? Is this what your life meant to them?”

“No.” Bruce gave in. “It's not what they wanted.”

“Then you do this for yourself?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then who?” she asked. “Bruce? Who is Batman for?”

Slowly the visions came back. The comfort of the timeless ballroom, the freedom of the darkness, and the final terror of the cold, suffocating ground.

 _Bruce? Who is Batman for?_ The question echoed in his mind.

“I...”

Bruce blinked the visions away, slowly returning to the room at present. They didn’t leave completely, though. He had the sensation of being between two worlds, the dissonance of it making his head spin unpleasantly.

He wanted to say that he chose this. That he did it for the city. For his parents. For himself. But he could see now how all of these had been lies. Lies he had told himself over and over to hide the truth. He wasn't the one in control. He was sick, and he had been for a long time now.

_How had he not seen it before?_

“I... I don't know.” His parents were still clear in his mind, and he longed to go back to them and forget the other forces pressing in. His vision suddenly went blurry, and he blinked a few times, but he couldn't move his hand to rub his eyes clear from whatever was causing it.

Strayer nodded, and made a note. “Well, that's a start.” The music stopped, and she carefully rewound the box. Bruce didn't notice the interruption this time. “I think we'll be able to make a lot of progress with you before the night is over, Bruce. What do you think?”

Bruce went silent. He looked down at his arms, expecting the familiar black bracers and gloves, then realized he had worn his suit so often it had become more familiar than his own skin.

Slowly, Bruce nodded.

The Bat controlled him. It had controlled him for so long now.

Maybe now he could finally be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why do you do what you do?" — Originally asked by Barbara in _Arkham Origins_. Thought I'd echo it here.
> 
> Struggled writing some parts of this chapter, hope it turned out ok. Excited for the next one!


End file.
